


Parting Words

by MicrosuedeMouse



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Found Family, Marriage Proposal, Napoleon loves his partners too much, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 03:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14370132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MicrosuedeMouse/pseuds/MicrosuedeMouse
Summary: UNCLE is abruptly disbanded after several years together and everyone is sent off in their own directions. Goodbyes are strained, and at the last minute Illya throws it all to the wind and asks Gaby to marry him; they can run away and never be found, live out the rest of their days anywhere as long as they’re together.(Maybe Solo overhears, and maybe he has some thoughts on how to fake their deaths, and maybe he has a pleasant little ranch property tucked away in the Pacific Northwest, and maybe he just so happens to be ordained, if they wouldn’t mind his company, because frankly he doesn’t relish going back to his old life at this point, not when he’s finally known family)





	Parting Words

**Author's Note:**

> Mmmm hello I am hyperfixating on TMFU for the first time in a couple years! I have like four other fics in progress (one of which is a collection of 50 prompt-fill vignettes because apparently I am very weak-willed when it comes to these guys) but this one I managed to get done in one sitting. Hope you enjoy!

Napoleon has not been attached enough to have to say a difficult goodbye since he was seventeen, and for that reason he is putting off this next one. He can’t remember how to do it without it hurting, and he avoids pain as much as he can, out of habit.

He never saw his life taking this turn.

It’s difficult, he thinks, as he folds up a few of his less-expensive shirts and stacks them neatly in his suitcase. He tried to resist UNCLE early on – or at least, resist what it meant. Becoming a team with two people who had managed to work their way under his skin in just a few days was going to soften him in ways he wasn’t prepared for. And he’d been right – it did soften him. Though he hates to admit it, he loves Gaby and Illya more than he’s loved anyone in a long time. He’s even developed a certain fondness for Waverly, though he’s expressed it more as a friendly rivalry. It suits both parties that way.

But now, UNCLE has been disbanded, abruptly. Everyone is being sent home to their respective bases of operations. He used to complain on what must have been a weekly basis how much he would prefer to be home in the States, but now the thought of his quiet apartment in New York depresses him. He likes his London flat, likes jetting around the world with Gaby and Illya, likes the newsstand on the corner outside of his favourite basement pub. He even likes this little room he has in UNCLE’s head facility, he thinks, glancing around. He’s spent enough nights here, exhausted after a whole day of physical training, or a long evening of mission prep. It’s not as homey as the flat, but it’s his. Or it was, before he packed up the closet, stacked his books into a carry-on bag, took the photo of his grandmother out of the bedside drawer and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket.

He’ll miss this odd little place.

Even Waverly is sorry. He hadn’t quite met their eyes while delivering the news. It wasn’t until they were all getting up to leave his office, the silence stunned and heavy, that he’d cleared his throat and asked for another moment. They’d sat back down and he’d looked at them each, thanking them for their service. Assuring them that it has been a privilege to work together, that he has rarely been part of such a varied yet effective team. Wishing them the very best, in a moment of raw earnestness that they have never seen from him. And then telling Napoleon and Illya that if they ever find themselves in London again, they’re always welcome to look him up for a cup of tea.

They would all have to clean out their desks, but none of them seemed to be able to speak upon leaving Waverly’s office, so they had all gone to pack up their onsite quarters first. Solo has been moving slowly on purpose, because he doesn’t want to face the others yet. He’s trying to figure out what to say. It’s not coming to him. He twists his mouth – he wants to be frustrated, because he’s normally so smooth, so good with his words. He always has _something_. A joke or a quip, if nothing else. But he finds himself resigned to it. They all three have their pride, and none of them will know what to say, he imagines. They’ll all know they feel the same way.

He leaves his room slowly, quietly, allowing himself the luxury of regret. He’s always run from what threatens to hurt, but he’s already feeling it, so he may as well indulge. Across from the door is the railing that overlooks a little common room, and below he hears the unmistakable rumble of Illya’s voice. Automatically, Napoleon steps forward softly, looking down and seeing Illya and Gaby struggling to say goodbye. He’s enjoyed interrupting them at all the worst times over these last few years, but this time he has the decency to stay where he is and keep his mouth shut. They need this moment.

“I suppose it’s time for me to see how I do on my own,” Gaby says, looking down at one of her hands. “I’ve learned plenty from working with the two of you. Now I can find out what I’m really capable of.”

“I expect it won’t be long before I start hearing rumours of MI6’s new top agent,” Illya answers her, something like strangled pride on his voice. “Strange little German girl who came from nowhere.”

She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “It’s a good sign that you have faith in me, I guess.”

“Always,” he promises. She looks up, then, meets his eyes, and their hands meet somewhere in the middle. Napoleon wonders which way this will go. His heart hurts twice as much as it did five minutes ago, watching his partners try to say goodbye to each other. He may never have felt what they feel for each other, but he’s invested in what they have.

He cares too much about them, probably.

It seems that perhaps Illya is searching for words and not finding them. Finally, Gaby says – so softly that Napoleon barely catches it – “We always knew it wouldn’t last forever.”

“Yes,” Illya manages, pressing it out through a constricting throat.

“Because it couldn’t,” she continues, to herself as much as to him. “We had no chance. Eventually, we would be sent in different directions. This was always going to happen. We prepared for it.”

“Yes,” he repeats, struggling even more.

Gaby licks her lips, swallows, and then stands up on her toes to kiss Illya’s cheek gently. She lingers a moment and he stands stock-still, his shoulders tensing. Finally, she pulls away, takes back her hands, picks up the bag on the floor next to her feet, and turns away.

Napoleon is holding his breath, he realises, and goes to let it out, dabbing his cuff against his eye before it can grow wetter. But then he stops again, still watching the other two. Gaby only gets three steps before Illya’s discipline snaps and he says, “Gaby, wait.” She turns back to him too willingly, clearly holding in tears, but Illya follows after her and cups one hand behind her elbow anyway, as if he’s scared she won’t stay to hear him out.

“Gaby,” he repeats, and the way he chokes on it he must be crying. “Gaby, I– Gaby, marry me.”

“What?” she asks, breathless, obviously taken aback.

“Marry me,” he says again, urgently. “We can– we do not have to do this. We could disappear. Go somewhere KGB and MI6 can never find us. Live quiet lives. Anywhere. As long as we are together.” He sounds like he can barely breathe. “You know we could do it. There would be challenges, but we could handle them, together.”

“Illya,” she breathes.

He sinks to his knees in front of her, taking her hands and kissing her fingers. “Marry me,” he begs her. He sounds broken.

Gaby pulls on his hands, and when that doesn’t work, she takes his face and pulls on that instead, until he gets to his feet. Then, still holding his jaw, she drags him down to kiss him fiercely. His arms go around her back, holding her against him like if he lets go he’ll lose her.

Which he might.

When they finally break apart Napoleon can see that Gaby is crying too. “Yes,” she says, no trace of doubt in her tone. “I’ll go anywhere.”

Whatever Illya had that wasn’t yet broken breaks then, and for a moment Napoleon thinks the man’s knees are going to give out. His shoulders are shaking and he weeps into her neck, murmuring how he loves her in three different languages.

For a minute or two they simply stand there, holding each other, trying to recompose themselves. Napoleon is exhausted just from witnessing this exchange; he can only imagine how they must feel. They whisper comforts to one another as they stand up straight again, wipe their faces clean.

And Napoleon asks himself: is he going to let them disappear without him? Can he really bear the thought of them taking off together while he goes back to being alone? Who would be the much-needed thorn in their side, if not him? His heart twists at the thought of them not having that irritating third wheel, then twists harder as he imagines instead being replaced.

He steps back from the railing and alerts them to his presence by opening and closing his door again, loudly this time, as if he’s just come out. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs they’re shaking hands, like colleagues, though all three of them know there’s no need for pretense in front of him.

He puts down his bags and tucks his hands into his pockets. “It’s been a good run, everyone,” he says, and he’s smiling, but he’s quieter than he would normally be. They look at him and nod, no doubt not quite trusting their voices just yet, so he takes the lead. “I don’t know where the two of you are headed, but I think I’ll take a little break for myself. I’ve got a lovely property nestled away in the Pacific Northwest, you know – a charming ranch-style house on a few acres of untouched woodland. The house is a little big for just one man, I suppose, but you know. I got it at a great price.” Gaby is looking at him curiously, just beginning to wonder what he’s getting at, and the smile he tosses her is rather less suave and more earnest than he initially meant for. “They think I’m a travelling minister, in the nearest village, if you can believe it. A missionary. I actually got ordained to really cement the cover. You know how I like to sprinkle in a few convincing details.” His gaze flicks to Illya, less readable than Gaby, and he swallows. He can only hope they’ll take the bait. “Maybe it’s time for a few months’ rest in the woods, you know? Get back to nature. Clear my head.”

“Won’t CIA want you back?” Illya asks evenly. “I did not think you got vacations.”

Napoleon silently thanks the Peril for the opportunity to drop his last, heaviest hint. “You know, comrade, I’ve always wanted to try faking my own death,” he says, aiming for a conversational tone, but knowing there’s an obvious layer of suggestion there. He’s not at his best performance today. He’s compromised. “I’ve thought about it for years – planned so many ways to do it. A fun little thought exercise, if you will. I’m nearly certain I’ve got at least three different sure-fire ways to pull it off, and dozens of backup plans besides.”

They’re both looking at him suspiciously now. He doesn’t want to have to say he overheard everything. It feels invasive, even for him. Please, he begs silently: please don’t ask questions. Please just let him have this. He knows he’s inserting himself where he doesn’t belong, but he wants this for all of them, not just for himself.

He looks back up and grins at them both, a little too earnest yet again. He can’t help the slight furrow of his brow. “You know, I’m terrible at goodbyes.” And in their eyes he finally sees understanding, and a little softness.

**Author's Note:**

> (If you're wondering? They pull it off. They find peace in the woods of Oregon, and Napoleon marries Gaby and Illya gladly. Eventually they tell him they can't stay on his property forever, so he sells them two thirds of it with the house and builds himself his own place on the remainder. They look after each other, and when ultimately Napoleon can't resist the pull of travel, Gaby and Illya look after his place while he's gone.
> 
> Ultimately Waverly, who always has an ear to the ground, hears that someone thought they saw Solo in Geneva, and he revisits what he knows about their deaths. He figures out what really happened and where they are, and his heart is happy for it. He never speaks a word of it, but after he retires, he sends them one letter to say that he's no longer beholden to the crown, and the invitation to tea still stands, for the three of them and the collection of miniature Teller-Kuryakins. He'll meet them in the middle somewhere if they don't want to risk being seen in London.)
> 
> I don't normally write in present tense but it felt right for this one - I'm pretty sure I caught all my tense slip-ups in the editing, but let me know if anything is off! And you're always welcome to hit me up on tumblr or twitter (@microsuedemouse everywhere) if you want to talk TMFU/Gallya! I'd love to hear from you (:


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